Between the Raindrops
by ImagineThis22
Summary: Various one-shot stories with various pairings, themes , and genres. Mostly Johnlock and maybe some Mystrade. Story title based off of the song by Lifehouse and Natasha Bedingfield called "Between the Raindrops". Will explore many different couples and themes :) I own nothing. Please read!
1. Chapter 1- Comfort in Odd Ways

_**Between the Raindrops- Comfort in Odd Ways**_

_**Pairing: Sherlock/John**_

John yawned as he entered the sitting room within his flat. "Morning," he addressed his fully awake flat-mate who was sprawled out on the couch.

Sherlock cracked an eyelid open. "Morning," he mumbled, closing his eyelid again.

John went to the kitchen and started to prepare tea and toast. John went to the fridge and tried to ignore the smell of rotting flesh drifting into his nostrils. He searched the shelves, groaning with disappointment. "Out of jam, how could we be out of jam? I just bought some, unless…" he looked over at Sherlock's experiment of the week and sighed upon seeing his favorite jam smeared all over various glass slides. "Really, Sherlock? Why couldn't you have asked me first?"

Sherlock ignored him, "We're out of milk, also. Better run off to Tesco's and pick some up for the day."

"See? Right there. A normal person would've said 'for the week', not 'for the day'. Good Lord, Sherlock, how can you go through a whole carton of milk in a day."

"If you leave now, you'll make it back in time to see me solve a case. You know how I absolutely _love _your voiced admirations of 'brilliant!' or 'amazing!'," Sherlock opened his eyes, "Off you go."

John stared at his flat-mate incredulously, "I'm not going to pick up some bloody milk so you can just waste it on your experiments!"

Sherlock held up his credit card, "I'll pay."

John sighed in defeat. He really couldn't pass that offer up. He walked over and received the card, "Fine, but next time, you're going."

Sherlock smirked, "Whatever you say, John." He closed his eyes and waited anxiously for John to remove himself from the flat.

John dressed in his coat, having already dressed himself in one of his jumpers and a pair of blue-jeans before coming out from his room. He hadn't bothered to do this on one occasion and paid dearly for it in a moment of embarrassment. He had thought the night he came home piss drunk and had to have Sherlock pry himself from John's tight embrace awkward, but that was nothing compared to the time that all he was dressed in was a towel –not for long anyway. He had thought he was alone in the flat and emerged from the bathroom, holding a towel around his waist. He walked into the sitting room and dropped the towel in fright when Sherlock materialized behind him. He had thought forcing himself on Sherlock was awkward, but appearing flat-out nude in front of him was down-right embarrassing.

"I'll be off, then. I'll be back within the hour."

"I'll be waiting with bated breath," Sherlock muttered, waiting for John to exit.

John closed the door and exited the flat, headed for Tesco's.

As soon as Sherlock heard the door downstairs slam shut, he sprang up from his spot on the couch and invaded John's room. He raided the laundry basket and found what he was looking for.

John's oatmeal jumper that John had worn the day before.

Sherlock stuffed the material in his face and breathed in, inhaling John's comforting scent. Sherlock smiled as the aroma filled his nostrils and his mind cleared.

John's scent had never occurred to Sherlock as being comforting in any way, but as of late, he found himself stealing whiffs from John (without him noticing, of course).

Sherlock clutched the jumper in one hand and left the room, headed to the sitting room. He sat on the couch, the jumper pressed to his face. He laid the material over his face, letting the scent of John's favorite cologne hang over him.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock just about flew off the couch in a startled jolt.

The jumper fell from his face and he felt his face become beat red.

John stared at his friend and then at the jumper on the ground, confused at what he had just seen.

"I…I…" Sherlock tried to produce an explanation, but his mind wasn't working properly.

John arched an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation as to why Sherlock had John's jumper over his face, "Well?"

Sherlock huffed, "Why are you home already?"

John pointed to the desk where his mobile sat, perched on the edge. "Forgot my phone. Now, answer the question: what were you doing with my jumper?"

Sherlock sighed. He might as well tell the truth. "Your scent…it relaxes me; helps me think."

John's mouth curled into an 'O' and then a smile, "So…whenever I leave…?"

Sherlock groaned, "Yes. I steal your jumper and lay it over my face as I retreat to my mind palace to think. Hardy-har-har. Let the persecution begin."

John chuckled softly, "No, no. I'm not going to poke fun at you, Sherlock. I think…well, I think its kind-of sweet."

Sherlock stared at him, "What?"

"I said, I think its kind-of sweet. You feel less anxious when I'm around…it's flattering. Anyways, I understand…completely." John reached into his coat and pulled out Sherlock's scarf. "I keep it with me whenever I go out without you…"

Sherlock's lips cracked into a smile at his possession. "My scarf," he beamed, his eyes meeting John's. "Does this really make you more comfortable?"

"Yes, really," he rolled his eyes, "and does my jumper really bring you comfort?"

"Yes, but I think," Sherlock paused, swallowing to ease his dry throat, "I think, um, I think-"

John laughed, "Go on, don't be afraid."

Sherlock huffed, "I am not afraid, I do not get _afraid_," John rolled his eyes as Sherlock cleared his throat, "I think I'd rather prefer the real thing over just a dingy jumper…" His gaze dropped to the ground, clearly uncomfortable.

John smiled, "Me, too."

Sherlock's head snapped up to meet his gaze, "Really?"

"Yes, really, you sodding git." John pulled Sherlock close and wrapped his arms securely around his torso.

Sherlock tensed, the sudden embrace stunning him. As he felt John's heart beating against his, he slowly melted into John's arms, snaking his arms around John.

John rested his head comfortably on Sherlock's chest and breathed in. "Nothing beats the real thing."

Sherlock craned his neck down to kiss John on the top of the head, "Agreed."

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	2. Chapter 2- Things Left Unsaid

_**Between the Raindrops- Things Left Unsaid**_

_**Pairing: Sherlock/John**_

John sat curled in a ball, clutching the Union Jack pillow in a death grip. His eyes were closed, the image of a bloodied Sherlock on the ground stuck on the back of his eyelids.

"You-hoo," Mrs. Hudson sang softly, knocking on the door to alert John to her presence.

John opened his eyes and stared at her, his used-to-be bright blue eyes now dimmed with sadness.

Mrs. Hudson stepped into the room and scanned over his body on the couch, "Dear me, you're just skin and bones!" She eyed the sandwich she had prepared for John that sat, untouched, on the coffee table. "I told you to eat, John. You need to eat."

John sat up slowly, his movements robotic. He reached out for the sandwich and took a bite, the jam tasteless on his taste buds. He chewed and swallowed the sandwich, bite by bite, to please her.

Mrs. Hudson sighed and took a seat on the couch, "It's been just over a month, dear, I think it's time for you to get out of the flat for a little. Stay with your sister, maybe?"

John looked over at her and blinked.

"It's not that I want you to leave because trust me when I say I love having you around, but this flat and the memories that come with it are tearing you apart. You haven't been taking care of yourself, John," Mrs. Hudson sighed, "and that's tearing _me_ apart; seeing you like this. It's absolutely heartbreaking."

John sighed, ducking his head.

"I just think you need some time away, away from the memories. You need someone to look after you and take your mind off of…you know," Mrs. Hudson wrapped one of her frail hands around one of his, "It's terrible what happened, but you can't keep letting the events of that day haunt you. Sherlock would want you to move on, John."

John cringed at the mention of his name, "I know."

Mrs. Hudson felt her eyes well up with tears, "We all miss him, John, but we can't let his death affect us like this. He'd want you to live your life and not dwell on the past." She squeezed his hand and let the tears stream down her face. "I know how you feel, John –well actually, I don't, _really_. You two were so close; I could never see you two growing apart."

John nodded, silent tears streaming down his face, "I miss him."

Mrs. Hudson wrapped her arms around him, "I know, honey, I know."

John nuzzled into her shoulder and let the sobs come, "I don't know why! That's the thing. I just don't know why he did what he did," he sobbed. "I can't move on, Mrs. Hudson, I just can't. I can't forget him…"

"I never said you had to, dear, I just suggested you try to get out of the house and resume life. Sherlock will always be with you, in your heart," Mrs. Hudson assured him, rubbing his back soothingly.

John pulled away, his head still ducked. "There are just so many things left unsaid…Things he'll never get to hear."

"Like what, dear?" Mrs. Hudson held his hands in hers.

"That I loved him, that I could never see myself with anyone but him. That, of all people I've known, he was the one and only one that I truly trusted. He would be with me and be protecting me from whatever obstacle came our way. That I would die for him because he was the best thing that ever happened to me," John's voice cracked, tears still flowing down his cheeks, "I_ loved_ him, Mrs. Hudson…but he'll never know that because he had to go and jump off a building and leave me alone. Why would he do that? Why would he leave me alone?"

"I don't know, but he's Sherlock, heaven only knows what goes on in that big brain of his. I'm sure he had a reason…" She paused, thinking she had gone too far, "Sherlock was a logical man; he wouldn't do something without a reason…"

John nodded, "I keep telling myself that, but it doesn't help…" John glanced toward the violin sitting on the desk where Sherlock had last left it, "I'll never get to tell him just how much I loved his violin playing, no matter the hour of the night. I'll never get to say how much the violin helped when the nightmares caused by war woke me up. I'll never get to tell him all the things I _wished_ I had the _guts_ to tell him when he was alive because he's gone and he's never coming back. Ever. No matter how many prayers I make, no matter how many wishes, he's dead and never going to hear anything I say."

Mrs. Hudson nodded, not knowing what to say in response.

"I miss him, Mrs. Hudson, more than anything. If only he had just listened to me…or maybe if I hadn't left St. Bart's…"

"No, it is not your fault, John. Do not blame yourself," Mrs. Hudson stopped his rant, "None of this is your fault."

"I know that…" John felt another sob shake his body, "I just miss him so much."

Mrs. Hudson brought him into another embrace and let her remaining tears fall, "I know, honey, I do, too."

...

Miles away in a safe house, Sherlock sat, his eyes glued to a CCTV live camera feed of 221B. The image was blurred by the tears in his eyes. He reached out and put his hand over the figure of his flat-mate.

"John…" Sherlock felt the first tear spill over his eyelid and slide down his pale face.

Those three words John had admitted made his heart swell, both painfully and happily.

_I love you…_

John didn't know it, but those things left unsaid, hadn't been left unsaid after all. Sherlock had heard him…and he felt the same way, too.

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	3. Chapter 3- Snowball Fight

Between the Raindrops- Snowball Fight

Pairing: Sherlock/John

"Put your coat on," John tossed Sherlock's coat at the consulting detective, "and your scarf." He threw that, too.

Sherlock eyed John as he dressed himself in his coat, wrapping his scarf tightly around his neck. "Now what?"

John put on his heavy coat and grabbed Sherlock's elbow, tugging him out of the flat. He pulled Sherlock outside and smiled at the falling snow.

Sherlock looked around and frowned. He did not see the appeal. "What did you want to show me?"

John tilted his head to the sky and let the snowflakes land on his face. "Look around, Sherlock, isn't it beautiful?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose, "Um…"

John rolled his eyes. "Come on." John took Sherlock's hand and began to walk south of the flat.

They walked through the falling flakes in silence, each trying to hide the blush from their cheeks due to their intertwined hands. The pair finally came across a small park, the snow already at least a foot in depth.

John took the first step into the fluffy white powder, the snow going up past his ankles. He took two more steps in, ignoring the wetness soaking through his jeans. He looked back at Sherlock expectantly, "Coming?"

Sherlock looked down and then back up into John's eyes, "Um…"

"Oh, for the love of-" John grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him into the snow.

Sherlock stumbled, catching himself before he fell. He braced himself on John's shoulder, cringing at the cold.

John smiled, "Doesn't this bring back memories?" John lay down in the snow, stretching out and letting himself sink into the powder.

Sherlock shook his head, "No…I never played in the snow."

"What?" John asked, sitting up quickly. "You've never played in the snow?

Sherlock sighed, "You know how I detest repeating myself."

John looked up at the curly haired man and grinned, "Well, you're going to experience the fun of it now." He patted the spot beside him, "Sit down."

Sherlock eyed the spot next to him and scowled, "No thanks."

John reached out and grasped Sherlock's hand, yanking him down beside him.

Sherlock growled in protest.

"Oh, shut up," John muttered. He laid back and lightly pulled Sherlock with him, both staring up into the sky.

Sherlock smiled. He had to admit, it was kind-of fun…but he knew that the only reason he wasn't protesting so much was because he wanted to please John. It had always been about pleasing John.

John sighed softly, "Isn't this great? I used to love going outside when I was just a little boy; playing in the snow was so much fun. Harry and I used to build forts, have snowball fights, and just admire the beauty of the newly fallen snow."

Sherlock closed his eyes, letting the snow land on his eyelids and in his eyelashes. "Sounds nice."

John sighed. He knew Sherlock's childhood was rough, but never experiencing the wonder that was playing in the snow was mind boggling. He couldn't think of a winter without a good old fashioned snowball fight…

Suddenly, an idea crept its way into John's mind.

John stood suddenly, holding his hand out for Sherlock. Once Sherlock took his hand, John helped him up, helping him brush the snow off his coat. He knelt down and packed a tight ball of snow in his hands, giving Sherlock a mischievous grin.

"What are you-" Sherlock was cut off by a snowball connecting with his shoulder. He stood, confused and shocked at what had just happened. He put on his best hurt face and turned away from the army doctor.

"Oh my God, Sherlock, I'm so sorry…" John put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed. "Sherlock, love, are you alright?"

Sherlock smirked, turning to face him. "Of course, dear John, I'm just disappointed that I didn't think of doing that first." His hands dove for the snow and he had already made a round snowball before John could run for safety. He chucked it at John's coat and it connected with his chest.

John grinned evilly, "Now you've done it." He dropped to his knees and began to make snowballs quickly.

Sherlock soon joined and by the time he had made two, John had made five. "How did you…?"

"I had an older sister, Sherlock. I got used to making snowballs fast!" He chucked one at Sherlock's coat and it missed, causing Sherlock to burst into laughter.

"Nice shot, John," he commented sarcastically, "Remind me, how did you become a soldier again?"

"Oh, shut it, you bloody wanker!" John huffed.

Sherlock stood, snowballs in both hands. "I'd run if I were you."

John gripped a snowball in his left hand, gesturing to his chest with his right, "Come at me."

Sherlock grinned, throwing the first snowball and hitting his target.

John suddenly dropped the snowball, this action confusing Sherlock. John stooped down and gathered a bunch of snow in his arms. He grabbed Sherlock's coat collar and pulled back, dumping the frozen water down his coat.

Sherlock jumped up and down, trying to get the snow out of his coat. He shrugged the coat off and ruffled out his shirt. "Dammit, John!"

John burst out laughing. "That's what you get!"

Sherlock shot him a glare, "Bugger off." Sherlock looked down at his coat, which was now soaked. He crossed his arms and shivered.

John walked over and wrapped his arms around Sherlock from behind. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned around to face him. "Me, too." He pulled a snowball out from behind his back and stuffed it into the back of John's coat.

John mimicked Sherlock's jumping motion, even shrugging off his coat like Sherlock did. "Dammit…I should've seen that coming!"

"Yes, John, you really should have." Sherlock smirked, "But nobody can be as smart as I am."

John shot him a playful glare and tackled him to the ground, snow flying from the impact.

Sherlock shivered beneath his doctor, "Jesus, it's cold."

John snuggled up on Sherlock's chest, snaking his arms around his torso. "Warmer?"

Sherlock sighed happily, placing a kiss on John's cheek, "Positively melting."

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	4. Chapter 4- Damn Flu

**_Between the Raindrops- Damn Flu_**

"Sherlock?" John called from his place on the couch, his throat dry.

Sherlock practically sprinted into the sitting room, his long limbs bending to kneel beside his flat-mate. "Yes, John? Are you alright?" Sherlock let his eyes sweep over the army doctor, his calculating gaze taking in every detail and trying to pinpoint the exact source of John's seemingly pained tone. His hands grazed over John's arms, feeling just how warm the blogger was.

John sighed, "Yes…" He gasped to breathe and let Sherlock's hands take his. "I just wanted to ask for some water," he choked, the dryness in his throat becoming unbearable.

Sherlock nodded and sped off to the kitchen, returning with a tall glass of cold water in his grasp. He handed the glass to John and watched John drain it within seconds.

John set the glass down and leaned his head back, shutting his eyes.

Sherlock sprang into action and gently lifted the bloggers head so he could place the Union Jack pillow under his head. His fingers grazed John's forehead and he frowned. "John, you are burning up."

John sighed, "It's the flu, Sherlock, of course I'm burning up." He leaned into the cold fingers pressed against his forehead, feeling relieved at the cold.

Sherlock smiled and flattened his hand out on John's forehead, receiving a positive hum from John in doing so.

John felt his stomach churn and twist, bile present at the back of his throat. He shot up and made a bee-line for the bathroom. He positioned himself in front of the toilet and began to empty his stomach contents into the porcelain bowl.

Sherlock heard John vomiting violently and rushed into the small bathroom. He knelt down beside John, who was slumped over the bowl, his head resting on his arm and his mouth directly over the bowl, and moped at how a man who had always been strong could look so weak and frail. He tentatively reached out and began to make slow comforting circles on John's back, feeling the heat of his high fever through the fabric of his jumper.

"This is awful," John moaned, having to swallow after speaking as he felt more vomit rising.

Sherlock sighed, "I know, I've had the flu before, John." Sherlock continued making small circles on the doctor's back, his hand gradually going higher. He soon found himself lost in the calm of the silence, the heat against his fingers, the slow repetitive circular motion…

"Sherlock?" John raised his head slowly, his eyes coming to rest on the curly haired detective's face.

Sherlock snapped out of his dazed state and immediately met John's gaze. "Yes?"

"I don't want you to feel like you have to stay with me all day. I don't want to be keeping you from your work," John mumbled, exhaustion from the flu overtaking him.

Sherlock laughed softly, "John, you and I know that, no matter what I've said in the past, my friends come before my work."

John blushed softly and lowered his head. "Thanks."

Sherlock smiled and stopped the slow fluid movements on John's back, this causing John to look up at Sherlock again. "I'll make you tea." He stood and waited for John to stand. When he didn't, he furrowed his brow. "Can you stand?"

John sighed and pushed himself up, using the toilet to help get to his feet. He stumbled, and Sherlock caught him.

"Guess not," Sherlock smirked slightly.

John sighed, "Just a little dizzy…I'm fine."

Sherlock's smirk became deeper and he positioned John's arm around his shoulder. "Come on, I'll help you to bed."

The pair slowly made their way to Sherlock's bedroom and Sherlock helped John into the bed.

John laid back and closed his eyes. "This is your room."

"Yes," Sherlock stated, not knowing why John was stating the absolute obvious.

"Why am I in your room?" John put his arm over his eyes to shield the light away from his eyes.

Sherlock drew the curtains, hiding the light to ease John's discomfort. "Would you like to climb_ all_ those stairs in your condition?"

John pondered for a moment, "No, I guess not." He frowned, "Where are you going to sleep? Wait, never mind…You don't sleep."

Sherlock smirked at how he hadn't needed to correct John because John knew him so well. "I sleep, but not regularly. Besides, tonight will be spent making sure you get well again."

John smiled, "Thanks, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, "You're welcome, John. Now, how about that tea I promised?" He swept to the kitchen and prepared the kettle. He poured the boiling water into the teacup and mixed the tea, adding a splash of milk –the milk that _wasn't_ for his experiment. He held the cup firmly as he padded back into his room, pausing in the doorway at the sight.

John was passed out, his body curled into a tight ball, one arm flung over the side of the bed.

Sherlock smiled softly and placed the warm cup of tea on his nightstand, pausing a moment to take in the (adorable) sight. He leaned down and kissed John's feverish forehead, his lips cool to the touch. He retreated and exited the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

John cracked an eyelid open and smiled, reaching for the teacup. He took a warm gulp and swallowed, feeling the tea soothe his aching throat. He set the cup down and reached up to the spot where Sherlock's cool, and surprisingly soft, lips had made contact.

"Maybe this flu isn't such a bad thing…"

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	5. Chapter 5- I Will Always Protect You

**_I Will Always Protect You_**

**_Warnings: Child abuse, Mention of drugs_**

**_Characters: Sherlock, Mycroft, Father and Mummy Holmes_**

Sherlock hopped off his bed gracefully, his small child feet landing on the carpet in order to muffle the sound. He silently crept from his room, his dark brown curls bouncing with each step out the door and into the hallway. He excitedly bounded down the hallway of his large home, his destination being Father's library –somewhere he was _not_ allowed.

He reached the large door, the solid oak gleaming from the polishing he had done yesterday as part of his daily chores, and tried the knob. It wasn't a surprise that it was locked; having been caught one-too-many times inside, his father had locked it a long time ago. He still tried the knob regardless, though, hoping one day he wouldn't have to pick the lock.

But today was not that day.

Sherlock knelt down beside the door and peeled back the hallway rug, revealing a bare wood-paneled floor. He found the loose floorboard that he had discovered a long time ago by accident, and removed it from its place in the ground. When the panel was removed, he reached his hand in and felt around for his lock-picking kit. When he felt the box in his palm, he enveloped his hand around it and removed it from beneath the floor. He set it beside him and quickly fixed the floorboard and rug so it looked as though it hadn't been touched. He retrieved his kit and set to work.

He pulled out his tools and began to jimmy the lock, his head turned to the side slightly so he could listen for the click which meant he had successfully unlocked it. He was so focused on his task and had just heard the successful click inside the lock when he was roughly grabbed from behind and shoved against the wall beside Father's library door.

Sherlock looked up into the furious face of his Father.

"What do you think you're doing, boy?" He demanded, his voice full of venom.

Sherlock looked away from his father and down at his tools, now abandoned on the ground. "I –I just wanted a book…"

Father tightened his grip on his son's shoulder, causing him to yelp in pain. "Where'd you get these?" He snatched the tool that was still held tightly in Sherlock's hand and shoved it close to Sherlock's face. "What is this?" He spat.

"A-a flathead s-screwdriver," he stammered, "I got it from My's toolbox." He tried to weasel body out of Father's grip, but his father slammed his back against the wall, his grip on Sherlock's shoulder increasing and becoming more painful by the second.

"What were you doing with it?" His father bellowed, the tool still held close to Sherlock's face.

Sherlock didn't answer, he didn't want the punishment Father was about to bestow upon him.

"I _said_," his father dropped the tool and bent down so his face was level with Sherlock's, "what were you doing with it?"

Sherlock coughed at the overwhelming smell of alcohol that came from Father's mouth. He tried to answer, but it came out between coughs. "I –I was trying," he coughed, "to get into…your library."

His father's scowl deepened and he let go of Sherlock's shoulder. He put his hand in his son's hair and pulled, leading Sherlock down the hallway and into their parlor by his hair.

Sherlock cried out and felt the tears streaming down his face. "Mummy! Mycroft!" He cried out, hoping his mother or brother would come to his rescue.

"Shut it, you insignificant prat!" Father backhanded his son and Sherlock fell to the ground just as Mycroft walked in.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft ran to Sherlock and made a quick examination of his baby brother's injuries. Sherlock's dressing gown was off of one shoulder, exposing the hand print and newly forming bruises where Father had been squeezing his shoulder. He was also bleeding on his cheek; his father had broken skin when he had backhanded the younger Holmes. Mycroft stood and helped his brother up, positioning his own body to shield his eight-year-old brother from Father's wrath. Mycroft squared himself with Father and glared, "You're drunk."

"I'm not," Father hiccupped, "Now step aside, Mycroft, this is not your business."

"It is my business, and I'm not going anywhere. If you want to get to Sherlock, you have to go through me," Mycroft stood his ground. He was not going to let Father hurt Sherlock anymore.

Sherlock gripped Mycroft's shirt in a fistful of fabric. He buried his face into his brother's lower back and sobbed.

Mycroft reached behind him and ran a comforting hand through Sherlock's dark curls. This seemed to calm the younger Holmes because the crying ceased to small sniffles and little tremors.

Father stared at Mycroft and balled his hands into a fist. "Step aside, Mycroft," he repeated, the commanding tone getting harsher and filled with warning.

"No," Mycroft's hand formed a fist and waited for Father to make a move.

"What is going on here?" Mummy demanded from the archway, her eyes darting between Mycroft and her husband. "Henry?"

"Nothing, Elena, go upstairs," Father spoke without turning his head to look at her.

"Don't boss her around, Father, you have no hold on any of us. Not anymore," Mycroft growled.

Elena looked behind Mycroft at her younger son. "Sherlock, honey, are you alright?"

Sherlock peeked out from behind Mycroft and ran to her, immediately being enveloped in a warm hug. "Mummy…" he smiled, instantly feeling safe.

Mummy kissed her son's forehead and picked him up into her arms, turning her attention toward the other two men in the household. "Henry, Mycroft, what are you two having a row about?"

"Oh, I don't know, Mummy, why don't you look at your son's shoulders and bleeding face and make a deduction," Mycroft snapped.

Mummy looked at Sherlock's face and lightly touched her son's bleeding cheek. Her gaze traveled down his face to his shoulders. She gasped at the red marks and darkening bruises on her son's body. "Henry…?" She looked at him in disbelief. "_You_ did this?"

Henry burped grossly and spit a loogie on the floor. "I caught the little prat breaking into my library, what else was I supposed to do?"

Mummy scrunched her face in anger. "You touched my little boy…" Her eyes narrowed and her face became rigid with fury, "You do not hurt your own child, Henry, you should've never laid a hand on your son!"

Henry shrugged, "He disobeyed me, Elena, he deserved whatever came to him."

Elena held Sherlock closer, "I'm calling the police, and they're going to arrest you so you may never, ever, hurt my sons again," Mummy looked to Mycroft, "Come, Mycroft, we can stay at Aunt Helen's until this is settled –and by '_this'_, I mean our divorce," she glared at her husband –soon to be _ex_-husband.

"Divorce? _You're_ divorcing _me_?" Henry laughed loudly. "I don't think so; nobody divorces me and gets away with it." His hand went into his pocket and wrapped around the small blade he kept in there for when he made rows of cocaine.

Mycroft sensed what he was doing and jumped him from behind, pulling him down and slamming him to the ground. Mycroft straddled him and began using his fists to punch his father's face. "Don't you dare hurt Mummy! Don't you ever hurt Sherlock again! Don't ever come _near_ my _family_ again!" Mycroft screamed, his fists colliding with his fathers face.

Sherlock fought against his mother's arms that were holding him back, and ran to Mycroft, reaching for his fist that was poised to strike Father again. As soon as Sherlock's hands wrapped around Mycroft's fist, the older Holmes stopped.

Mycroft turned and was met with his brothers wide, tear filled eyes. His fist dropped and his body seemed to go limp.

Sherlock caught him, struggling to keep him upright. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft's torso and rested his head against his chest. "I love you, My," he spoke into his brothers shirt.

Mycroft stood and pulled Sherlock with him, lifting him from the ground so that he was carrying him. The brothers looked down at their unconscious fathers beaten and battered face, blood pouring from his (no-doubtly) broken nose. Mycroft sighed and looked up into his brother's eyes, "I love you, too, Sherlock." He ran a hand through his curls again –a comforting action for both boys- and brought him in for a hug. "I will never, ever, let anyone hurt you again, Sherlock. I promise."

Mummy came over to the boys and placed a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. She spun him around and wrapped her arms around them, holding them tightly.

Sherlock squeezed his brother tighter and smiled, knowing that Mycroft would always be there for him.

No matter what.

**_Thanks so much for reading! I know this was a difficult chapter and I almost burst out crying writing this, but I think people needed to know that this actually happens out there. Child abuse is not an easy topic to talk about, but if its happening to you, please get help from an adult. No child deserves to be beaten, no matter what they did. _**

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